Person of Interest Snow Storm
by pastorannie
Summary: John Reese has been captured and tortured. So how did he end up in the Pacific Northwest at the cabin door of the widow of an old friend?
1. Chapter 1

Person of Interest

When John Reese is tortured, he escapes to try and find the widow of an old friend, little realizing how much their two lives would be changed forever.

A soft snow was floating down from the winter sky over the small, simple cabin tucked in the woods near Capital Forest in Washington state. A warm light filtered out through the kitchen window, and the petite woman inside seemed very happy as she prepared a simple meal for her dinner. She often would stop and gaze out her favorite window, watching the innumerable flakes falling, remembering the days when she and her John would often go out at dusk and build snowmen and make angels in the white, pristine ground cover. But those days were long gone. John had died serving his country, and she was left to live the rest of her days without her love, his sparkling blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his soft laughter vibrating against her ear. She mentally shook herself out of the emotional funk, and instead began to thank her God for the ten years they had together. Their daughter, Dorrie Ann, was tucked away in the small bed under the stairwell, and their mutt, Molly the Wonder Dog was camped out as close as she could get to the crackling, wood fire set in the stone fireplace John had built for her. Annie poured a cup of decaf coffee in the blue Coleman metal cup, smiling softly at the tiny crack on the rim that Dorrie Ann had made one day playing tea party with her daddy home on leave.

Softly, she moved past her daughter's bed, and sat in the hard carved wooden rocker sipping her coffee and gingerly blowing on the chunks of venison in the stew her neighbor had given her. Annie was so thankful for her life now, though it was hard to continue being the minister of a small church without her John beside her. He had fit into her life so well, and often was seen doing odd jobs around the church building. His identical triplet brothers had come to help build, and between all the Coburn brothers, the church congregation had built a new facility to replace the old one burnt down by a vengeful drug lord. She laughed quietly when she remember the 4 men stepping over each other, challenging each other as to who could hammer fastest. Jaynie Cobb Coburn had beat them all. Of course, he sheepishly admitted to Annie that he had come in the night and used a power hammer, but the church members only laughed and shook his hand heartedly.

John Casey and Annie had met near the cabin one day when he had been shot and run off the road. Their relationship had matured and grown until they were married by General Diane Beckman, secretly so no one could hurt Casey through her. He was a N.S.A. Agent who was assigned to handle a young man with a computer in his brain. John had been shot, drugged, and nearly killed several times until he decided to retired from active spy work, and open his own security service. Meanwhile, Annie had Dorrie, a beautiful brown haired, blue eyed baby, within two years of their marriage, and life was so good until John was mysteriously killed in an undercover assignment. Since his death over 3 years ago, Annie had sought the warm and quiet of the family cabin more and more, and she was realizing that her years pastoring in her beloved church was coming to a close. Annie sighed loudly and rose to put her dish back into the kitchen sink, when Molly woke abruptly and growled deeply, staring at the large, wooden front door.

Annie set her bowl down on the table beside the couch and reached for John's Sig, hidden in a secret drawer below the sofa stand. She checked the fully loaded clip, rammed it back in, and flipped the safety off. She confidently handled the Sig easily; John had required her to know how to clean and assemble every gun they had. Annie stepped gently to the front door, and listened. She heard a few steps then an abrupt crash into the door. A hand began to slap the outside of the door, and a low, quiet male voice pleaded along with the banging.

"Please...ma'am...I need some...help." The man's voice was stuttering, and between the pauses Annie thought she heard him moan softly.

"Sir...I have a fully loaded P226Sig Sauer pointed at the door, and I am not afraid to use it. From your voice, I believe you are slightly over 6 feet tall, and if you do not leave now, I will promptly place one bullet right through the door and into your brain matter." Molly was scratching wildly at the door, below Annie's feet, and whining frantically. Annie shushed her and pulled gently on the dog's collar to make her sit.

The hand pounding began again in earnest on the outside of the door, and the man spoke again, his voice weaker.

"Please, ...Parson Annie...John sent me..Need help..I've been stabbed..." The man was holding his left side, but he stopped knocking, and laid his bruised forehead on the cool, wooden slats of the door. "I have no...gun..but your husband...told me..you were his beloved..."

At the sound of those words, so personal and private to Annie and her late husband, she yanked the door open and the tall, lean, man staggered into the warm cabin. Blood was flowing alarmingly from his side, between his left hand, as he tried to staunch the flow. He leaned heavy on her, and she barely had time to lay the Sig down, before he wrapped his right arm around her.

Sweat clung to his filthy shirt, and when her hands went around his muscular waist, she felt the rips and tears in his flesh. She helped him over to the couch, and as she bent to help lower his body there, he fell onto the couch, hitting his left side on the sofa's arm.

"Dear God...arrgh.." He cried out, arching his back at the horrific pain. Annie let Molly loose to run outside for a moment while she tried to move the man so he would be laying on his back on the sofa. He moved slowly, gritting his teeth, trying to help her position him better. Black clouds of unconsciousness was threatening him, but he struggled to try and talk.

"Who are you? How do you know my John?" Annie reached for a small blanket on the back of the sofa and pressed hard on the stab wound.

"So...sorry...Parson." He grasped her wrist, as she knelt before this once handsome stranger, his face cut and bruised, one eye nearly shut. "Your John...I knew from military, N.S.A. He told me...any trouble...come here." His words were slurring because of the pain, and he began to shiver, shaking violently as wave after wave of pain washed over his body.

"But how did you get this way?" Annie wiped the sweat gently from his face, and she was instantly fascinated by the brilliant, blue eye looking so gently back at her. The man actually tried to smile, as he softly said, "it's complicated."

"Men. You are all alike. You always resort to that saying when you don't want to explain." Annie reached for the first aid kit stored under the table where she had retrieved her Sig. She found some ibuprofen and shook out two for him to take.

"No..." he pushed her hand away. "Can't take...them. Allergic..." Suddenly, he sucked his breath in as she began to cut away the rest of his tattered shirt, revealing the extensive damage down to his chest.

"Dear Lord, Jesus, they tortured you with whips!" Annie recognized the telltale stripes, many of them already infected. She grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and gently began the process of clean each slash.

Again the man gently stopped her hand. "My gut...pour it all into the knife wound...now" He growled gently, and then he lifted her hand and kissed her palm.

"I am John, also. John Reese." He pulled his slacks down a few inches to help Annie, and as she leaned over more to pour the disinfectant in he tipped the bottle, and the medicine came flowing out over his gut wound.

"Oh, God. My God, why..." he groaned loudly, but would not let go of her hand until all the peroxide had been used. He was gasping in short, quick breaths, tears staining his face, blood running in tiny rivers along the long, proud nose.

"Why hast thou deserted me...?" Annie was crying at the pain she was causing John, and he looked intently at her as she quoted the well known Bible verse.

"Shsh, dear parson, I usually swear by God's name, but I think I realize He led me to.." John's eye(s) were closing slowly, and he passed out breathing two more words, "you, Annie."

A_nnie Coburn is an original character I used for several fan fictions posted under the FanFiction community of t.v. Series of Chuck. But I am become more than fascinated with Person of Interest and wanted to try my hand at weaving Annie's life into John's and shortly, Harold. So would love comments, criticisms, or waves of hands coming my way. Thank you for reviewing. _


	2. Chapter 2

Person of Interest "Snow Storm" Chapter 2

Somewhere in the Middle East at the same time John Reese meets Pastor Annie in chapter 1

His captors had worked him over too many times for him to keep count. At their hands, he had three broken ribs, a right dislocated shoulder, and a shattered left knee cap that were all healed incorrectly, so that he no longer could breathe deeply or walk on his legs without using a crude, wooden cane one of the less evil guards had given him. However, as soon as the other guards had found out what the kinder soldier had done, the captive man no longer saw him again, after a single shot rang out in the night around the compound. Instead, they had used the guard's own wooden gift to beat the American's ribs again until he heard new ones snap, and he lost consciousness. The man now standing outside his filthy cell refused to speak to him, or even look him in the eye, so he has given up trying to make some type of human contact with the enemy soldier.

He kept track of the passing months, and by his count he was at this particular "Camp Swampy", his not so affectionate name for his various prisons, for over 13 months. Before then, he thought he had probably been undercover for about eight months, and then captured and transported to several prisons next to a year, also. His memories were slightly fading, but every night, before he crawled unto his pallet of flea infested straw, he recited his real name, his last cover name, his social security number, his military I.d. Number, and the story of his courtship and marriage to his wife. Often he fought the despair that rode on waves of pain from the various tortures he received; would she even be missing him? Would his daughter even remember him anymore? It was those times, as he spat up blood from his lungs, and tried to keep the shuttering to a small twitch, that he would begin to recited the Lord's Prayer and other scriptures she had taught him. Many times, after a particularly grueling session with "Camp Swampy"'s favorite torturer, after they had threw him into his cell, he barely had time to simply say, "When I am afraid, I will trust in God." He would vomit from the pain, and mercifully, God would allow him some deep sleep, peppered with his daughter's laughter, and his wife's alto voice singing her many choruses of praise.

But when the day's tiny light would filter in through the cracks on the brick wall overhead, he would thank God that he had survived one more day, and begin again to work on a plan to get away. He picked out the living creatures from the gruel they feed him, but once there even was parts of a cooked rat that help put some type of protein in his ever shrinking stomach. He tried to keep his cell clean by spitting on the floor and rubbing the worn cobble stones with his shredded tunic, and he made sure that his wastes were contained either in the rusty bucket they gave him or a corner opposite from his cot. He counted his staggering steps around the cell over and over again until he could estimate that he walked close to ten miles in one day in the small room, If he got any outside time, usually to go visit "Massacre Marcus", the Arab official over the prison camp, he was between two soldiers who dragged him, pulled him, or forced him to hobble on his shattered leg. Every time he fell, he was aware enough to count the guards, and the various out buildings, and over the months of his incarceration he was able to formulate a fairly stealth plan that he could use in the weeks ahead.

His session in front of "Massacre Marcus" was not fun today. Marcie forced him to stand at attention, and spoke only Arabic to him, circling around and around his body, to try and force him to break his stance. Marcie then sat on his cushy, leather desk chair, and sipped black Turkish coffee, calling the American filthy names, over and over again. But the Marine never cracked, even as slices of pain flew up his left leg, and into his back. His brilliant, blue eyes, hidden by his brown and gray foot long beard, and under the mass of matted brown hair that now hung to the middle of his back, stared at a spot above Marcie, and though he understood every word the commandant said, he showed no reaction, not even when the commandant threw several pictures of his former team on the desk.

He only set his jaw firmer, especially when a picture of his wife was slammed down on top of the desk. If Marcie had been watching closely, he would have seen the Marine's forehead vein pop out, and increasingly throb faster. However, the Middle Easterner only wanted to reveal his great knowledge of the American soldier's past, and so the little stiffer back, the fists clenching tighter was never noticed by the enemy commander. Finally after three hours, the commander ordered the Marine back to his cell, where once again he was beaten, this time around the small of his back, until he blacked out. In the morning, he peed blood. He knew it was time to put his plan into action. He would either die from kidney infections or die trying to escape, and as he prayed once more for wisdom and strength, he knew this day, today, was the beginning of his new life.

Somewhere in the city library in Manhattan, U.S.A.

"Mr. Reese, in God's name, where are you?" The bespectacled man whispered to himself as his fingers flew over the small lap top he had placed on the ancient wooden table off to a corner in the library. This was not his library. That had just been compromised so he was in the middle of trying to find a safe place to set up his surveillance equipment and computers he needed to continue in their quest to help all the "irrelevants" the government ignored. That's what had gotten both he, one Harold Finch, and one John Reese in this disappearance act. Over a week ago, John had recognized the social security number that the Machine had revealed, as belonging to a former Marine soldier that had rescued John out of a mission that had headed south rather quickly. The Marine and his team had delivered the badly injured special ops officer back to his commander, one General Diane Beckman, who promptly promoted the Marine and laid down the law to Reese, who only smirked through his blood stained face, and saluted his general smartly.

Reese and Finch however, were at a stand still. Every fact they had garnered about Casey was either redacted because of his many undercover missions, or led only to dead ends. In fact, that was the most mystifying fact of all. John Casey had been declared dead by enemy fire in Iraq over three years ago, and left behind a wife and 7 year old daughter, back in her home town in Washington state. There had been no leads since then, so it made no sense as to why the Machine had brought Colonel John Casey's

file to the top of the list.

It was John Reese who had reminded Finch of the same thing that had happened with Theresa. She was thought dead, but the young teenager had escaped a boat fire and was very much alive. With Reese's help, they rescued Theresa from her money hungry family, and reunited her with an aunt that loved her deeply. Just because the facts seemed to point to Casey's death Reese and Finch were inclined to believe the Machine much more than redacted files and a cemetery plot with a simple grave marker in the National Cemetery in Tacoma.

So Harold Finch worked his computer research skills and found the address of John Casey's wife's church and her apartment in Washington state. Reese had taken the next flight out of New York into Seattle, over a week ago, and the last contact he had made with Finch was 3 very long days ago. Harold dug further in the various records on the Internet on Annie Coburn Casey and had worked up quite an impressive biography on her for Reese's benefit. He shot the information to Reese's phone, and the last text he had received simply said, "Thanks, Harold. I'll check in with you in four hours. Just pulled up to the church."

By now, the news of a very rare winter storm hitting the Pacific Northwest also was wearing on Harold's brain. The main interstates to the rural town where Reese last called from was shut down as over 150 accidents hit in one day. Thousands of people in Seattle and the surrounding counties were without power, and the national news had reported on several deaths from the trees that had finally snapped under the heavy snow. Communication to and from Annie's town was also cut off and the only cell phone relay was by a satellite that flew over the town every other day. Harold felt as cut off from his partner as Annie must of felt about her husband. He slammed the lap top's lid down, earning the shushes from several library patrons, but his mind was made up. He shoved the lap top into his brief case, rose from the chair, and slowly, carefully put his wool coat on. He turned as quick as he could, willing his bad leg to keep up with his brain, and hobbled out of the library. Once outside, he rang up his staff at one of his many corporate offices, and they had him, swiftly and quietly, on the corporate jet out of New York on a non-stop flight to Seattle. By the time he arrived in the busy airport in the Emerald city, he had a car waiting and directions on the GPS for Annie's town. Some things just needed Harold Finch's personal touch.


	3. Chapter 3

Person of Interest Snow Storm Chapter 3

"Hey! Mister..." The man's voice was annoyingly high timbre and it irked Reese deeply that every fiber of his skin was screaming...no, wait. It wasn't a man's vocals that he heard above the skin screams in the back of his mind. It was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, only about 6 inches from his face. He could not reconcile that sweet whisper in front of his battered face with the fact that it was even there...or why he was even here. John jerked awake and before thinking he sat upright and drew for the ever present gun in the back of his...sweatpants? Little girl, with silky brown hair, and sparkling blue eyes that twinkled up at him? No gun, no suit, no what...a cabin in the woods...He quickly looked at the little girl, who was holding up a steaming cup of broth to him.

"Mommy told me to bring this for you, mister." She helped him take the mug, and then snuggled closely to him on the sofa. She tucked the afghan around his sweats, and helped him bring the cup to his lips, not even slightly dismayed at the profound shaking of his gauze wrapped hands.

John collapsed back in the sofa, and mumbled "thank you" softly, trying to break through the crusty scabs that had clotted on the ends of his mouth into something resembling a smile, but he only made the little girl giggle again.

"You're funny, mister. I like your smile, better than..." the little girl reached tentatively up to his eyes, and brushed the tears still dripping from his eyes. He jerked away at first, but she reached for a Kleenex and gently brought his head lower so she could again attend to his eyes. He eased his body toward her, and in those gentle tiny hands, he felt amazingly close to understanding what Jesus may have felt like having his feet bathed by the woman's teardrops.

"Thank you..." John was amazed at the cracked bass voice that spoke from his own throat, but as he let her continue to wipe his entire face with medicated wipes, the broth was slowly bringing life to his body, the gentle administrations bringing health back to his soul. "What shall I call you, Nurse...?

The tiny hands jerked away and landed on her hips, and she stood up on her knees, and proudly said:

"Dr. Dorrie Ann Coburn Casey. And mommie says I can call you Mr. Reese." She stared back at him intently as he flashed to a mini female version of the John Casey he remembered, and grinned even widely.

"Hello, Doctor Dorrie Ann but may I call you, Doc? My face kinda hurts with all that name?" He asked as a soft chuckle escaped his lips. It felt good to be in an environment of safety and simple child purity. "If mommie will let you, my name is John. And thank you for the soup."

"You have my daddy's first name, well his name now. And you're welcome. I'll go take it to mommie, and ask her if I can call you...hmmm." Dorrie jumped down and then sat back and looked intently at her patient. Inquisitive, clear as the sky blue eyes looked deeply into John's dim blue orbs surrounded by bruises and cuts. He remembered how John Casey helped him escape from the stockade they were captured, Casey's knee dislocated, Reese feverish and suffering from whippings. Many times he was stare up at those eyes, and listen to the calm bass of his C.O.'s watching the vomit from Reese's chest, and cleansing each vicious lash with purified water from Casey's own bottle.

"Uncle John" Dorrie Ann spoke with a short nod . She bobbed up and ran back into the kitchen where, she called to her mom. "His name is Uncle John and he says his face can't say all of my name. So is 'Doc' ok?"

John eased himself carefully down on the sofa, his left hand automatically guarding the knife wound he could still feel. "Why do all the women in my life choose my names for me? Stanton and now this little..."

"Mr. Reese, what was that you were saying?" the next voice he heard was a smooth alto that washed over his soul, beaconing peace to him.

"Hey, Pastor, thank you for all.." Reese shifted uncomfortably and then wept the room with his left arm. "all this. This safe, marvelous, joyful home full of mini John Caseys." He glanced up at Annie, who threw her head back and laughed loudly.

"She definitely, is my greatest gift John left me. Here, I brought some water and some pills the doc, the general physician next door brought me. You are to take the antibiotic twice a day, and the other is a pain pill, every four hours."

She gently raised his shoulders, and he obeyed as far as the antibiotic, but he refused the pain pill.

"Later, please. I need to know how long I was out and if this g.p. is someone I can trust?" Annie felt John's body tightening up so she didn't push the issue with the pain pills, but slowly she brought him back to the pillow and she and Dorrie draped the afghan again around his slightly shaking body.

"Honey, why don't you go get a huggie for Uncle John while mommie talks to him?" Annie spoke softly to her daughter, but Dorrie instantly obeyed her, but not without placing a gently kiss on his forehead before she sprinted off.

Both adults looked surprised, and then Annie sat down on the carpet near John's head, and giggled softly. "Uncle John, you have won the heart of my daughter. Thank you. Normally, John's work never interfered with Dorrie's life, but the last year he was here, he had General Beckman bring in one of the best retiring surgeons from Walter Reed to live around the cove. Satisfied?" Annie waited for John's nod, and laughed as Dorrie had brought a purple hippo huggie from her bedroom.

"Here, Uncle John. Ms. Pippo has helped me a lot. That and Jesus!" Dorrie laid her beloved stuffed toy in front of John's face. He suddenly thought of Detective Fusco, especially when Dorrie squeezed the toy and it farted very loudly. Without thinking about pain one bit, big, touch, former C.I.A. Spy John Reese threw his head and roar with laughter until this time tears of joy leaked out.

This little purple hippo loves reviews. Please feed my hippo (on loan from Abbie at N.C.I.S.)


	4. Chapter 4

Person of Interest-Chuck "Snow Storm" Chapter 4

Somewhere in in a remote Jihadist camp

They had not paid attention to the American spy for three days now, and Casey used the time to continue to recover from his previous wounds and pack his small kit of moldy bread, a knee brace made out of his worn leather sandal and two old bed springs from his cot, and his wife and daughter's picture he had hidden in the straw mattress. His kidneys were still bothering him, but he ignored the searing pain and kept his ears open to the talk among the guards. He heard through the prison grape vine that an enemy's forces were getting closer to the camp, and he thought that was why "Massacre Marcus" was too busy to continue to interrogate and bully him. Within six hours of the prison guards rumors, the compound was hit by several short air to ground missiles. In the confusion, John was able to kill his guard with a slit to the throat by the terrorist's own knife, and limp out between the out buildings, his head down, the makeshift brace tight on his knee, his family's photo tucked under the Eastern tunic near his heart. The guard's pistol felt good in his hands, and he knew he needed to control his feelings of revenge if he was to escape whole and return to the States and his womenfolk.

The compound was already on fire, and the screams of men dying ripped through the hot air around Col. Casey. He continued to try and make his left knee work, crouching among the debris and using the cacophony of civil war cover his escape. Several bullets ripped through the air by his head, but he kept to the out buildings around the outer fence, and headed toward a small opening in the roughshod barbwire fence. He searched the grounds around him, trying to figure out how to cut the hole bigger to accommodate his six four frame. Carefully, he tried to bend over to jam the wires apart, but his knee gave out and he landed on his belly. Quickly with his hands, he dug and scooped the soft sand away from the fence's edge when he heard the familiar click of a Glock near his left side of his head.

"أوقفوا، أو أنني سوف يطلق النار عليك يا كلب." ["Stop or I will shoot you, dog."] The harsh sounds of the Arabic words hissed near his ear, and the cool steel of the pistol pressed even further into the matted hair of the Marine. He stiffened at the man's voice, but somewhere the timbre of the voice, with a slight hint of British accent tugged at his foggy memory. Slowly, John raised both hands, but not without scooping a small amount of sand into his right fist. He felt the man step slightly back, and then order Casey to stand.

John raised himself up with his right knee on the sand, but his left groaned with a loud crunch, and he seemed to loose his balance. Instead, he brought his fist around and threw the sand at the man with the Glock. The Middle Easterner screamed at the pain, and reached to try and brush off the sand from his eyes, and fired wildly in John's direction. Casey threw his right leg out, and kicked at the man's nearest knee cap. The satisfying crunch was enough to topple the man, and John used his own momentum from the kick to propel himself onto the Arab's chest, the guard's stolen knife raised high above the enemy, whose eyes were bathed in gritty tears, his hands trying to reach his shattered knee. The Arab punched at the Marine's back, over and over again, until he hit the diseased kidney and the Marine roared in pain and tried again to slice the enemy.

"By all that is Holy in Heaven, Colonel, will you stop it?" The Arab screamed out in English and tried to block the descending knife. The two wrestled each other for another minute until the words the dark complected man finally reached the raging Casey. Just as Casey was going to get in one last right hook,

he stopped in mid air, and stared deeply in the black eyes of his "enemy".

"Ahman?" Casey wheezed, throwing off the turban the man wore and staring into the black eyes of his Arabic chaplain friend from the Her Majesty's Service. The Arab held onto to Casey tightly, and kept saying his name over and over. "John, it's all right. You're safe. It's all right. It's me, you crazy American dog!"

John relaxed in his friend's arms, and laid his weary head on his friend's shoulder. "It's been so long...dear friend...so long..." His body began to shake rapidly, and the corners of his peripheral vision were becoming darker. His kidneys were screaming and his destroyed left knee were threatening to steal him away into the abyss. Major Ahman Remington shifted his body away from John's and laid the Marine down softly on the ground, pulling his camp jacket off and stuffing it under Casey's head. He kept his right hand though on the soldier's chest, not only checking for the man's heart beat but to allow John to center on the human touch the Arab provided. Radioing ahead to the force's commander for help, Remington brought a water bottle to John's parched lips, and kept talking to the American soldier, praying over the man, and whispering words of encouragement. Suddenly, John stiffened and caught Ahman's wrist tightly in his fist.

"My Parson, Ahman...is she all right? Does she still remember...?" John let out a sob as he tried to focus on his friend, defying the darkness to over take him.

"She is fine, John. We have it on good authority that she is safe with an old friend of yours." The dark skinned man's smile was brilliant, and his eyes twinkled. "Of course, that friend is your pal John Reese."

Casey reared up against Remington's arms, and before he could stop a four letter word exploded out of his mouth. "Damn, Ahman, he's C.I.A.!" Remington thrust back at the big man, and lowered his face, whispering loudly to assure his long lost compatriot.

"Not anymore, Col. He left the agency back in '08, and he has just surfaced in New York this past year. We still haven't figured out what he is doing. But just recently, a batch of drug members, smugglers, and even a few shady Wall Street brokers have turned up on the streets of New York either tied in a bow from Reese or eliminated by a deadly dark haired man in a suit." Casey's face relaxed a little but his eyes still were wary at the information, and he coughed as he struggled to say:

"I will kill that man when I get my hands on him. Slowly, ever so slowly...I will reach down his throat and pull his colon up through his gullet."

Remington laughed and signaled the medics that were now running up to them. He patted John's chest and proclaimed loudly, "Colonel, of that, I have no doubt. Now let's get you home to the Parson and your delightful little girl."

Casey laid his head back, and the sounds of the war around him faded into the distance as the meds the medics gave him washed over his broken body. Ahman's hand never left him, though, all the way to the waiting truck and later the Medivac that flew him to the nearest American base in Kuwait. His last memory before he lost consciousness was of Ahman whispering the Lord's Prayer over him, first in Arabic and then in English, and then singing Parson's Annie's favorite chorus, "As A Deer".

"شكرا لكم، صديق قديم" ["Thank you, old friend".] Colonel John Casey growled back and fell deeply asleep.

In the secretary's office at Pastor Annie's church a middle aged man, bespectacled, with spiked hair, sat stiffly on the office chair, his hands tightly clutching a brown briefcase laid on his lap. He was watching the secretary's hands fly across the computer's keyboard, and at the same time, try to call her boss. Each time, her face scrunched up in a frown and the man seemed to grow even more impatient.

"Mr. Crow, I am deeply sorry. The storm had downed our Internet provider and I can not call Pastor Annie at either her cell or the cabin's hard line. I understand that you are wanting to contact her to update our church insurance since our building remodel, but I am afraid I can only give you the architect's specs and show you around the facility."

"No need, Mrs. Hauge, was it?" Harold "Crow" glanced down at his notes on the file cover laying on top of the brief case. The bright eyed, friendly secretary nodded at his pronunciation of her name, and after riffling through various papers in the wooden file cabinet near her desk, she passed him the current insurance file, the architect's drawings and the latest additions to the church structure.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hauge."

"Terry, everyone here calls me Terry, Mr. Crow. If you would like, I can show you on a tour of the new facility and then you can..."she paused in surprise at the ring tone coming from the hard line to the church. She grinned and answered it brightly, "Good Morning, First Community Church, Terry speaking." She shot a thumbs up at the enigmatic man, who mouthed distinctly: "I'll just look around myself."

He rose gingerly from the uncomfortable chair, a little surprised at the easy access to the church facility he had just been granted. He placed his brief case on the chair's seat and pointed the electric eye toward Terry's desk, activating the phone link and left the case there. He limped out of the office and began a cursory tour on the facility, but as soon as he was within the simple but beautiful sanctuary he activated his own cell phone and linked into the signal booster located in his rental car.

After two rings, a silky, feminine voice answered lightly.

"Well, long time no hear. Have we located our mutual friend, or has he met up with a redacted N.S.A. Agent that I know?" Carter moved to the interrogation room and shut the door quietly behind her.

She heard a sharp intent of breath from the man on the other side of the cell, but then he continued smoothly.

"Detective Carter, your deductive powers continue to amaze me. I will not ask how you know Mr. Reese is intertwined with that N.S., but I do appreciate your intell gathering concerning the Marine's location. Have you heard from Maj. Remington?"

"Yes, sir. General Beckman relayed that the last com from Remington said they located and secured Col. Casey and he is in route to Walter Reed in Washington, D.C."

"Good, I am pleased." Finch paused and then quietly said. "Detective, you have done far beyond your country or I could ever ask you to do." He sat down in the nearest chair in the sanctuary, and smiled slightly at the comfort and lumbar support it provided.

"But, Mr. Finch. I hear one of your famous buts." Carter's voice was quiet, but it had a little edge to it.

"The snow storms here have knocked out my access to any computers"

"Going into withdrawals, Mr. Finch?" Carter shot back.

Finch chose to ignore the comment, and trudged on. "I need to know the location of Pastor Annie Coburn Casey's cabin near Capital Forest. Can you get on line and send me the g.p.s. coordinates to my phone?"

Carter stepped to the terminal in the corner of the room and accessed the database with her I.d. Code. Within two minutes she had the g.p. downloaded to Finch's phone just as the church's secretary opened the sanctuary's doors.

"Thank you for your assistance. Crow out." Finch clicked off the phone, but not too fast to see the email from Carter's computer downloaded onto his phone. He rose from the comfortable chair, and turned toward the secretary slowly.

"Mr. Crow, is there any other assistance I can give you? Our phone lines are working and they say that the Internet connections will be up within the hour. Can I get you some coffee or some tea?"

He looked sharply at her to try and determine how much she had heard, but her open, friendly face only showed concern for the little man.

"You know, a nice hot cup of green sensha tea sounds delightful, Mrs...Terry. I do admit I am not used to this wet snow here in Washington." Finch turned once again toward the beautiful stain glass window behind the front pulpit area.

"The window is exquisite. May I ask who did the stain glass?" Mr. "Crow" limped forward and stopped respectfully at the base of the platform. Terry strolled up to him, mounted the platform and then extended her hand to help him up the small step. Finch hesitated a moment and then took her help to navigate the steps. The stained glass window at the front sparkled in the morning sunlight as it streamed through the picture of Jesus standing with his arms open. The words "Christ the Lord is Risen Indeed!" were spelled out in gold at the bottom of the pane, and a small plague was installed below the window and it read: "With grateful thanks to all who serve our God and our Country".

"Pastor Annie's brother in law, David Dixon, drew out the design and the four boys paid for it to be created and mounted by an artisan from the Seattle area." She explained.

"Four boys?" Finch's eye brow went up. He recalled only that Casey had one other brother who flew fighter jets and helicopters for the army, Chad Shelton.

"Yes, Chad, John, David, and their youngest brother by four minutes, Jayne Cobb We almost lost the window when it slipped out of the window anchors, but Jayne caught it and held it up until all the brothers could get it anchored correctly. I don't think Jayne's voice was ever the same after that."

Terry giggled and then turned to the respectful man who stood silently, his blue eyes wide behind the geek glasses.

"Let me get that tea for you, Mr. Crow. Any sugar?"

"Yes, thank you. If you don't mind, I would like to stay for a few minutes longer. I believe I would like to take some pictures of this for our file on the church insurance. I would not be disrespecting any of the front area, am I?"

"Oh, no sir. All are welcomed here, and especially at this window. That was the intention of the design. That all may find compassion and forgiveness at the foot of Our Lord Jesus." Terry walked briskly out of the sanctuary and as the door shut behind her, Harold Finch took in the sweet peace the re-creation of the Lord created in his heart.

"Dear God...wherever Mr. Reese is, bring him home to me. Indeed." He whispered to the window and then humbly crossed himself.

The tea was surprisingly refreshing, and it made Finch slightly morose at the memory of his early morning tea gifts from Reese, even more aware of the distance between he and Reese. With renewed resolve, he bid his ados, and climbed back into the rental car, sliding the cell phone onto the docking port and headed off to the near by forest to claim a lost parson, and an ex C.I.A. Spy.

Please do not think I disrespect other peoples' faith, and I hope you do not feel I was a little too overt with my love for the Lord. I hope my Arabic from Google translate was at least a little close. But let me know any comments, or criticisms. I love your reviews. They are like Finch's tea, and Reese's coffee: nectar for my soul and body! Or in Casey's world, much like guns and the Parson's kisses: sweeter than wine. HA!

Maj. Remington is an original character from my The Colonel Vs. the Raven, and he seemed the ideal person to keep chasing down the phantom Casey throughout the Iragi hillsides. He is the kind of man who is not afraid of Casey and would give his life for his American friend. "the dog". I could not find the correct spelling of Finch's type of tea let alone know what it tastes like, but as I recall, Reese was very fond of bringing it to his boss, perhaps to try and surprise the computer genius many times over with his covert entrances. "Don't you know how to knock, Mr. Reese?" "Not if I can help it!"


	5. Chapter 5

Person of Interest/Chuck "Snow Storm" chapter 5

The man currently occupying the Parsons' couch was restless in his sleeping, jerking slightly under the afghan she had draped over the ex op, His closed eye lids were fluttering and one could see the eye balls rapidly moving, as a hushed moan would escape his chapped lips. The Parson was sleeping on the floor near him, and as his moans began again in earnest, she stirred from her troubled sleep and quietly moved to his side. She did not at first touch him, but instead began to gently sing softly to his aching body, mind and soul. His jerks became more infrequent, and suddenly a deep sigh escaped his lips, and he slowly opened his eyes, staring at her pretty face. Tiny little feet patted over to the two adults, and Dorrie Ann plopped herself down on the rug beside her "Uncle John" and lifted a cup of hot cocoa to him.

"Thanks, Doc". Reese winked at the little girl, who giggled and fell down into her mother's lap. The man slowly raised himself on his elbows, and scooted his upper torso a little higher on the pillows and then with the parson's help, he swung his sweatpants legs down to the floor. As he did, Ms. Pippo, Dorrie's snuggie she had loaned him, gave a horrendous fart that echoed through the small cabin. Reese laughed softly along with the women in front of him, and he sipped slowly, letting the delicious cocoa run a river of warm heat down his throat and into his empty stomach.

"I don't know what you put in your cocoa. Doctor Dorrie, but it is better than my boss's sensha tea any day!" Reese gulped down the cocoa and held out his mug to the little girl. "More please?" John put on his famous puppy dog face, and Dorrie giggled again as she headed back toward the kitchen for the refills. He watched her leave with a calm smile on his face, but when he turned to Annie he instantly grew quiet and solemn, his eyes averted from her face. Annie reached out and touched his knee gently, daring him to be honest with her.

"I need to know about my John. He's alive isn't he? Why hasn't he come home, John? Three long years I have grieved the death of the most important man in my life, and now you show up on my doorstep with wounds, and words that only my John knows. You had better come clean, dear friend or I will..."

Annie's voice had taken a sharp edge to it, but she didn't finish the warning since Dorrie returned with more mugs of cocoa, giving John his first. He nodded his thanks, and Dorrie gave her mother some, and then sat next to John, putting her little head on his shoulder gently. He hissed slightly as she hit his knife wound, but then he settled her in, and stared directly in the brown eyes of this formidable woman.

"I first met your John, and..." Reese touched the soft hair of the little girl, and smiled down on Casey's daughter, "and your daddy in Irag about 8 years ago. Your daddy was a brave soldier, Dorrie Ann, and he came and rescued me. I was very hurt, and he helped me escape from the bad guys, and he even lifted me up and carried me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes." Both of the girls giggled softly of the mental picture his words had created.

"But I lost contact with Casey soon after that and I never got to thank him for what he did, even though he was a little angry at my stubbornness at insisting that we bring back all my men under my command. Between the two of us, we didn't loose a single man, but Casey got hurt very badly, and I am afraid he has blamed me ever since."

Dorrie looked up into Reese's eyes intently, and she nodded seriously, "I will tell my daddy when he comes home that you are not to blame for making my daddy get hurt. It's 'cuz there is lots of bad people around the world, and they don't like American soldiers like you and daddy, Uncle John."

Reese did a slight double take when he realized she had used the present tense in discussing her father, and that somehow she had figured out his military background. He gazed into Annie's face, who was wearing a smug grin at the wisdom of her daughter.

Molly the Wonder Dog was now whining fiercely at the door, and Dorrie jumped up and ran to grab her coat, boots, and mittens. Annie helped her get into her snow outfit, and Molly and Dorrie went out to play in the brilliant, clear weather outside, leaving the two adults inside, strangely quiet and shy.

"John, I need you to tell me the truth." Annie sat down next to Reese, while tucking the blanket around him. She knew he was still running a slight fever by the heat that still was radiating from his body, and he winced each time he had to move. She reached for the first aid kit, and instructed him to take off the t shirt she had pilfered from her husband's dresser. "Let me clean you up and I want to hear some facts, mister." Slowly, she pealed the various bandages off the worst of his cuts, and reapplied antibiotic cream left there by the doctor who had initially taken care of Reese. When she got down to the knife wound, still seeping blood through the padding, he grabbed her wrist and silenced her hand, his brilliant eyes darkening at the emotion he felt.

"Annie, John is alive. From what my partner and I can figure out, he has been shuffled across Irag at the whims of a khalif known as Marcus Al Adhim for the past three years. John had fallen off N.S.A. radar shortly after his capture, and if it wasn't for a certain Major Ahman Remington, we would have never found him." At the mention of Remington's name, Annie gasped and covered her mouth in surprise.

"Ahman? He found my John? Oh, thank you Lord, he has been one of John's contacts in the Middle East ever since we have been married. But where is John now?" Annie's eyes were shedding soft tears, and she tried to gulp down the lump found in her throat. At the sound of her question, Reese again looked down away from her face, and he scrubbed the stubble on his chin.

"I don't know. The last contact I had with my boss was the day I drove up to the church, and I haven't been able to get to him because of this storm. Unfortunately, I ran into some petty thieves that were trying to carjack my rental, and before I could fight back, one of them stabbed me and another pistol whipped me into darkness. When I woke up, somewhere in a shack near here, my hands were shackled above my head, and their leader proceeded to whip me to get information on other drug gangs in the area. " John subconsciously rubbed the bandages around his inflamed wrists, and swallowed to get his nerves under control.

"When they found out I knew nothing, they took off for town and I was able to tear my hands free from the handcuffs, and walk, or rather stumble several miles to your cabin. I knew I was near your home by the directions John had given me before our...differences, but clearly, but by the time I got here, you saw the mess I was in." Reese turned slowly to Annie and placed a kiss on her forehead.

"Annie, you saved my life. Just as your husband rescued me from Al Adhim, you have saved me from those s.o.b.s who tried to break me. Your doctor friend from General Beckman, you and of course, Doc Dorrie Ann." Reese grinned fully, as he looked out of the front window and the two adults sat quietly watching the happy little girl and dog making snow angels in the rare, deep snow.

Harold Finch had driven carefully for several miles from the church before he located a tiny shack off the graveled road. The snow was building up on his windshield and he needed to scrap off the ice that was clogging his vision. His g.p,s. locator had pinpointed the pastor's cabin about 3 miles to the southeast, but for safety, Harold steered the car carefully into the shack's driveway, and turned the car off. He buttoned up his wool coat, straightened his hat, and slipped his hands into the warm, leather gloves Reese had bought recently for him. He grabbed the cane from the backseat, realizing that the snow and ice would make any trip outside the car treacherous for his leg and slowly open the door. He glanced down at the snow, and immediately gasped as he saw the obvious drag marks of a bloody body that lead to the shack.

Though every fiber in his being strained to make him hurry to the door of the shack, Finch stepped carefully around the blood tracks, and slowly made his trek to the door. It was locked, and he stood for several minutes to listen if anyone was inside, When no sounds came from within, Finch pulled out his lock pick set, also a gift from Reese, and deftly pried the lock open and stepped in.

The shack was dirty with half eaten pieces of pizza and empty beer bottles strewn over the filthy carpet. He pulled out a small halogen flashlight and followed the blood drops to a back room where broken handcuffs, caked with dried blood, were handing from a hook in the low ceiling.

"Oh, John, please let this blood not be yours." But Harold picked up a soggy wallet on the floor beneath the handcuffs, and opened it up. John Reese's handsome face looked unsmiling back at him, and Harold sighed deeply. No money was in the wallet, and the two credit cards normally in John's billfold were also missing. He glanced around at the room, and noted the small whip on a crude table near the hanging handcuffs.

"Dear God in heaven, let John be alive." Finch prayed softly, and then turned to move outside to his car. As he turned, his left foot kicked something out from under a ratty looking chair. John's cell phone lay on the floor, its l.c.d. panel cracked, dried blood on the screen, but when Harold pressed the on button, the phone lit up. Harold could not help but let a satisfying grin play at his lips. He scrolled swiftly down John's contact list, and found Pastor Annie's number. He pressed send and waited impatiently for her to pick up. He looked skyward, and mouthed a "thank you" to the air, and when the phone clicked, and the warm alto woman's voice answered, Harold Finch knew he was only a few minutes away from his partner and friend.

Please review and I will send you Dorrie Ann's delicious recipe for cocoa. Thank you for visiting the alternative universe of Reese and Casey. Next up reunion for the two men. Fireworks guaranteed!


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